The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice
this neat?”
“I like order. And it would be rude of me to abuse your hospitality.”
“Why, thank you.” An image of Mike’s dishes, clothes, and papers scattered across the house flashed through her mind. He had always assumed someone—she—would pick up after him. “It’s appreciated.”
She tilted her head and sipped her coffee while she furtively studied him. He appeared to be a laborer: his clothes were stained by oil and iodine, his work boots were worn and muddy, and his hands were scraped. Both his hair and skin were a tawny gold, dried and colored by the elements. Yet beneath his weathered exterior Nora saw the spirit of a gentleman. Somebody had taught him manners.
“I understand you worked on some horse farm out east.”
He swung his head around. “Where’d you hear that?”
“From Seth, of course.”
The threat in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. “That’s right,” he replied in a friendlier tone. “A private estate for leisure farmers.” He tucked the tips of his long fingers into his waistband. “Cattle, sheep, horses, a little of this and that just for their private pleasure or consumption. Not commercial, like this.”
Nora knew the kind of place he meant, and the kind of wealth it required. “I see.”
C.W. was relieved she let it drop. Old Abe, the manager of his family estate in New Jersey, was a trusted friend of his, and his father before him. He’d finagled references for Seth. Abe would keep his mouth shut about his whereabouts, C.W. was sure. But snoopy letters to Agatha about a Charles Walker would set the hounds on his trail. Best to keep Mrs. MacKenzie off track.
Lifting his cup, he remarked, “Nice china.” Then bringing it closer and turning it upside down, he studied its provenance. “Strange to see Meissen ware mixed with Pyrex.”
Nora laughed. “I guess that’s the story of my life.”
They both smiled, yet measured each other like pugilists sizing up an opponent. He seemed as intrigued by her comment as she was that he could identify the rare German china.
She waved her hand toward the heavy mahogany table, chairs covered in needlepoint, and tall chests filled with china. “All this came from Oma’s house—Oma is German for grand mother.” Her eyes softened as she recalled the thin gray-haired woman with the unassuming manner and endless depth of love.
“My happiest childhood memories came from her kitchen. It was among these things here that I learned science, math, and reading. Not from textbooks, mind you, but from baking. The wonder of carbon dioxide from yeast, the fractions of a measuring spoon, and reading endless recipes in both English and German.
“That old oven over there,” she said, indicating an iron industrial oven in the corner, “was always hot and filled with loaves and loaves of dark bread.”
She closed her eyes and sniffed the air, but instead of fresh bread she smelled smoke from the wood stove. When she opened her eyes, she saw C.W. watching her with a strange expression in his eyes. Nora blushed and wiped an imaginary tendril from her brow.
“Anyway, that was how I always wanted my own kitchen to be. Busy and warm. That wouldn’t be a bad description for a person either, would it?” she added.
He gave her a wry smile. “Nope. It sure wouldn’t.”
For a moment their eyes met and revealed their private yearning for a home and a family and a simpler life. Then they both quickly averted their eyes, as though they had both opened a hidden box and exposed their most private secret, before snapping it shut again in fear it would be stolen.
Glancing around, she found reassurance in the familiarity of Oma’s things: lemon squeezers, metal sifters, can openers, paring knives. Near the oven, the shelves overflowed with an odd collection of battered pots and pans, large flour bins, wooden spoons with chipped porcelain handles, and oddshaped bottles and baskets. Yet, it was all surprisingly efficient.
“Function, not aesthetics,” she murmured.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, I was just thinking how this kitchen reflects the code of farm life.”
“Did you live on a farm?”
She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. But I’m originally from Wisconsin. My father was a baker and owned part of a dairy farm. I used to love to go out and visit the cows and hunt for barn kittens. We didn’t go that often, though. Mother found it boring and Oma didn’t drive. So…” She sighed, running her hands across a tall cherry armoire. “No, I love these things because they belonged to Oma. This is her legacy. Each item is more precious to me than a jewel.”
The bittersweet memories of her childhood played upon her features. C.W. watched with fascination, remaining silent, listening. She had no idea of the effect she was having on him as she spoke simply about her childhood. There was no subterfuge, no name-dropping, not a hint of the pretension he was accustomed to. Nor, he suspected, did she have any idea of the sexual magnetism he felt. For under his impassive exterior he was struggling to deny it.
She turned her head away and wrapped her arms around her chest. Her wrists were frail and her long fingers with their short, unpolished, oval nails tapped gently upon her shoulders. As she stood, absently looking over her things, she invoked the image of the child she had just described. An innocent, perhaps even a timid girl. The kind of child who kept treasures in a box under her bed, who sang to the trees, and who knew the name of each of her dolls.
As he watched, mesmerized by her tapping fingers, the child became woman. Her innocence grew sensual, erotic, and he found himself imagining those fingers tapping upon his body. He stepped closer, with nonchalance, and smelled the sweet clean scent of soap. His physical response was immediate, forcing C.W. to reel back and create a distance. God, how long had it been since he’d been with a woman?
Looking up, Nora blinked, as one coming back from far away thoughts. No, he realized. She had no idea at all how she affected him. And he was glad.
Smiling, Nora said, “I had to fight Mike to keep this stuff. He thought it was all worthless junk.”
“You obviously love your grandmother’s legacy—and this place. Why did you stay away so long?”
Her face clouded and she looked away. “I had my reasons.”
Nora ran her palm along the mahogany table. “I knew it was all here waiting for me,” she added, more to herself. “I’d never throw anything out.”
“So, you’re the type that squirrels away old clothes, family photographs, and chipped china.”
She offered a wan smile. “That’s me. I keep it all. Everything holds some memory.”
C.W.’s gaze swept over her old worn jeans and handknit sweater, to her small hand arced over the table. “Then, why did you remove your wedding ring? Isn’t that usually the last vestige of sentiment to go?”
Nora blanched, her hand flying instinctively to her ring finger.
C.W. watched her and cursed himself for his bluntness. It was time to go.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacKenzie. That’s none of my business.”
He crossed the room with determined strides and paused only to grab a large crate of empty glass bottles.
“Recycling is going strong in Vermont,” he muttered. “I’ll take these down to the center. I—I left a list of recyclables on the fridge.” He cleared his throat. Work, business, he thought—the great panacea. “Just rinse them out and toss them in here. I’ll take them down to the center for you every Monday.”
“Yes, fine,” she murmured.
She was still rubbing her ring finger and staring out the kitchen window. Seeing this, C.W. gave himself a mental kick. He had hurt her with his careless comment, and he was